Faith
by xswallowheart
Summary: 'Faith' is a dirty, suspenseful story of Matt and Mello's occasionally unpleasant and unhealthy relationship after Mello's reappearance four years after leaving Wammy's House. It battles with Matt's possibly unrequited passion for Mello and the various dramas the two experience whilst living on the run. Told in Matt's POV.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: **This story will not be completed; however I will leave the previous chapter's up. c: I'll be starting one later on which details Matt and Mello's life in Wammy's House as sexual frustrated teenagers, so be prepared for that and as much angsty-smut as you can handle! ;D

* * *

This probably sounds clique, but I don't believe in love.

I guess you could call it the burden of an orphan – even if we're auspicious enough to wind up in an orphanage or a home instead of out on the streets, there is still that little part of you that is different than the average kid. One day it's there: you might be safe at home; you might be returning from school: you might be tucked in bed without a care in the world and then suddenly, it's gone.

It might have been a car crash. A gunshot. A careless, inordinate accident. Call it what you will- but once _they're _gone, they take all the uninhibited gooey feelings with them, and suddenly you're scraping the bottom of the barrel for it, hysterical, dilapidated, because somehow you've become a shell instead of a kid.

Maybe I'm just talking for myself- when I learnt that my parents had bit the bullet (quite literally) you wouldn't have recognized me from a bag of bones.

It's safe to say I'm over it now. I had to be. Wammy's House may have been packed to the rafters with prodigies, but they were still kids, and kids can be the most titanic assholes in the world. After all, they'd all lost their parents in one or another- they had little time or sympathy for the new kid who stunk up the place with his misery and tried to hoe favouritism from Roger (who generally provided none anyway, the old bastard.)

You get used to it- the loneliness; for a while it was me against the world. Don't get me wrong, though- I don't say this for pity. I sure as hell don't need or want pity. I've roughed it for far too long to rely on sympathy from others. Kind words and compassion will only get you so far in your life- from then on, you're on your own.

I guess what I'm trying to say is, I've been strong. I've been stronger than you can imagine. But not because it was exciting and not being I wanted to be because but because _I had to be.  
_  
Maybe for this reason you won't blame me for some of the things I've done- I'll do. This won't be the first time I say 'hear me out': I was an orphan and used this as a justification to be a dick to others and to put all the pleasant parts of me austerely under lock and key. I'm not a good person. I've never been a good person.

But sometimes, good things come to me.


	2. Chapter 2

I've been awake for a while. I don't know what time it is, but I know it's still dark. The curtains, slung wide open because I was too exhausted from a full (but not regretted) eight hours playing Legend of Zelda, which I've completed an incalculable amount of times but keep going back for more. The sky reveals an obscure blanket of stars; beyond them are the aloof sounds of the city, strangled by the dense forest which encircles our pitiable cabin like a tomb.

When I say we, I mean myself and Mello, whose laboured breathing I can hear from the room beside me. I don't know whether he's awake- I don't check. Mello's bizarre sleeping patterns have always managed to piss me off (what kind of man gets up at one in the morning for a fucking _chocolate bar?_) but as long as he doesn't tramp around the house shouting or breaking things, I can deal with it generally without complaint.

Of course, it's not like he can afford to do that anyway. When you're in hiding you usually don't have much opportunity to make a shitload of noise.

Mello's been on the run ever since he sacrificed his mafia thugs for an experiment and then allegorically gave the finger to Near and the SPK. Pilfering, extorting, house-trafficking every two or three nights to avoid being spotted – he's lived the real deal, though for some screwed up reason he seems to enjoy it. Ex-mafia, ex-Wammy's-House-second-best, ex-future-prodigy, and the guy did it all just to piss Near off. Living on the run because he can't handle being bested by that little white haired shit.

Though in all decency, I've never disliked Near personally. I detested him because Mello did. I terrorized him because Mello did. Honestly, I worshipped Mello from day one.

I hate to admit it, but maybe I still do. I mean, it's not like he deserves it.

But anyway, Mello has always done a great job at fucking up his life; which of course, this means he fucks up mine too, just because I can't say no. He's always been a great manipulator, but the difference is, I allow myself get operated. I know I shouldn't- it only endorses Mello's holier-than-thou bigotry shit, which is bad enough as it is. It's why he is still my best friend after running out on me four years ago; it's why I've let him upheave the discreet calm which was my life in the matter of hours; it's why he's sleeping (or not) in the room next to me, putative and hailed without question.

Mello showed up on my doorstep almost four months ago (in the middle of the night, might I add). Apparently his sleeping habits are in sync with his nomadic ones, too. He was bleeding copiously from some ugly hole in his thigh which didn't seem to be bothering him much but sure as hell disturbed me. He stunk like Chocolate; of wilderness and sweat, just like I remembered him.

Of course, now he was escorted by the pang of leather; of gasoline; of the metallic stitch of blood.

I had stared at him for what felt like years. I had felt so many things in that moment that I was overwhelmed, my mouth flapping stupidly like a fish. We were swallowed by the uncanny silence of the night; the slap of my stomach as it completed somersaults, the-

"Where the _fuck _have you been?" Time was moving at a normal speed now. Within seconds I had wrestled him to the ground, his wrists pinioned above him, a knee holding him still and in place. The thud of my fist connecting with the strident jawline of his face echoed like a cry through the deserted carcass of my street. I could swear all my neighbours could hear it- that even though their muted pot-haze (which they were on relentlessly, and which I had shared with them once or twice) they could tell I was devastating the face of a man who had, for almost 10 years, been my greatest friend.

Once I had sufficiently bruised my knuckles, and Mello's nose was tilting on an odd angle, I stopped. I was breathing furiously, lungs heaving, stomach twirling uninhibitedly. He was glaring at me with an expression so familiar that if I weren't on a high fuelled by a furious, vehement rage, I could have almost been reduced to tears.

Incidentally, I did not cry. We glowered at each other for several seconds before Mello shifted uncomfortably beneath me, swearing beneath his breath. "Get the fuck off me." With an ugly cough he turned his head and spat – with it was the ruby-red smudge of blood. I would have felt guilty if I wasn't so insanely mad, and entirely speechless. I didn't move for a moment. I vaguely realized I could count myself blessed if, the moment Mello was up and had free use of all his limbs, he wouldn't knock out the majority of my teeth.

I rolled off him anyway. I was too furious to promote coherent thinking.

Yet despite my speechlessness and the lead in my stomach which marched to a curious beat every time I inhaled, the first thing I though as Mello rose to his feet was: what the _hell _is he wearing?

The Mello I remembered had always been feminine- long (or at least, long in the eyes of a teenage boy, who revered teasing Mello for it ceaselessly) straight blonde hair, skinny waist, short. This, at least, was a look he kept. But he was not wearing a long sleeved top and loose pants (which were extremely similar to L's typical apparel, which I realized now was not entirely coincidental) which I was so inured to seeing him in before he up and left Wammy's House in a gigantic temper tantrum.

If I wasn't so delirious with rage, and I could tell Mello was using all the strength he had not to attack me for momentarily screwing up his pretty little face, I might have made a joke.

Mello was crusted head-to-toe in dark and impeccable (besides the hole in his leg and the arbitrary spots of blood surrounding it) leather, to the point where it groaned as he took every shaky breath. Not only was his shirt enormously tight, it was even a goddamn midriff, coming to a V-line in the centre and glimpsing his belly-button. The image was completed with unambiguous leather pants and knee-high boots. He looked like a fucked up fetish-Buffy from that show where she runs around slaying hideous vampires. His hairstyle was only contributing to this likeness.

"Just let me in." Mello spat, his hands balled tightly into fists. I glared at him, incredulous- we hadn't seen each other for almost five years. How did he find me? What did he want? How could he act like this wasn't a gigantic moment, like his heart wasn't leaping out of his chest like mine was?

I didn't answer- I considered refusing. Mello charged forward anyway, his face contorted in strain, possibly from his nose, possibly from the hole in his thigh which was leaking precariously fast. I stepped out of the way, only just avoiding his shoulder before it collided with mine. Mello stormed into the chaotic mess of my living room, wrinkling his nose at the stench of cigarettes. He glanced around before swiping a litter of cigarette butts and game controllers off a vacant couch seat.

"Hey!" I protested, moving forward to grab the discarded controllers and clutching them to my chest. I was still breathing hard, and I couldn't control the distinct roundness my eyes had taken. I didn't know how to act; what to say. Surely we couldn't just continue along as though everything was normal? Mello ignored me.

We were silent for some time. I settled on another couch opposite his, trying to ignore his sidelong glances at how astonishingly shambolic my apartment was and how it looked abandoned and decrepit all except for the ludicrously large gaming motherboard set in the undeviating centre of the living room. I briefly wondered if Mello would laugh if I told him how many meals I had skipped to buy it.

"Why are you here?" I broke the silence heatedly, pissed now that Mello was saying nothing after elbowing into my house in the middle of the night. He had fished a chocolate bar out of his pocket and was absentmindedly chewing.

"I need your help." He said nonchalantly, crossing his legs and regarding me with a look someone would give a particularly wild beggar on the street. "Near, the SPK, are all after my ass and no one knows how to disarm security better than you do. You could be a great asset to me."

I visibly filched. Apparently I made a better asset than a friend. I didn't answer for several moments. "Where the hell have you been?" I finally said, wrenching my hands together and gritting my teeth. I ignored his comment completely.

"Don't get your panties in a twist. I'm back, aren't I?"

For a second I was so furious I thought I would combust. "What the fuck does that mean? You left me for _5 years. _You left without a word, a note, a thought -"

Mello interrupted, leaping to his feet. "I don't have to explain my motives to you, you assghole." We both stood adjacent, glaring at each other, hands balled into fists. Mello imbibed an angry breath before hurling a fur coat (I paused to glance at it incredulously) at my feet and turning to investigate the small apartment. "And anyway, I left a note. It's hardly my fault that you didn't find it."

I stared at him, open-mouthed, as he peered through a doorway in distaste. "Now, where am I sleeping?"


	3. Chapter 3

I hadn't really thought of it until now, but I've made a lot of stupid sacrifices for Mello since leaping onto the 'let's live on the run for shits and giggles!' bandwagon.

Due to our haphazard schedule of house-jumping, and to my extreme disgust and revulsion, I often didn't have enough time to pack and unpack my colossal gaming system. Not only that, but if it happened that we were found and had to haul but we wouldn't exactly have a vast amount of time to pack and store the intricate equipment I possessed and revered like a god. Because of this, it sat abandoned in my old apartment, awaiting my arrival with open arms. Fortunately I was still able to keep my PGS at hand, but it was a poor replacement.

I sat on the ratty couch of our cabin, legs stretched beside me, shirt thrown lazily over the edge of the sofa arm. I still wore my gloves, and my goggles were slung lazily over my eyes. Being able to cruise around with as little clothing as possible was one of my most cherished pastimes, but you'd be hard-pressed to find me without my favourite accessories.

Mello was in the other corner of the room, glaring heatedly at the blue glow of the computer screen. I tried to ignore how hot the image was; my computer (which was to me a person in itself) casting a devious glow over Mello golden hair, over his arms, the slick of his skin.

I could hear him tapping away at the computer furiously. He was absentmindedly chewing on a goddamn chocolate bar. I honestly couldn't understand how he could be so passionate about such a disgusting food, and how he wasn't as huge as a beached whale. Pausing Legend of Zelda (completed 12 times, currently in progress of completing the 13th) I sat up and slung my arms over the couch, watching Mello curiously. "What are you doing?"

He grunted, reluctantly swinging his eyes to me. He looked mighty pissed. "Trying to find out if the SPK have any leads. Their security is currently through the roof." He rolled his eyes, leaning backwards on his chair, arms crossed over his torso. "Not that you're being any great help."

I only smiled, propping my elbows up to support my chin. "What, can't do it yourself? Weren't you Number 2? Can't handle a little heat?"

I only had time to duck as a coffee mug came soaring in my direction. For the first few months I'd learnt to deftly block Mello's attacks the hard way, though I'd gotten pretty bruised up for the most of it. Despite Mello's feeble appearance, he was surprisingly strong, and he could throw a mean punch.

"Shut up," Mello said mildly, eyes back on the computer. I laughed, though he ignored me. He grunted in exasperation. "Anyway, it's not like you're being any great help." One of his hands was absentmindedly undoing his leather zipper, plunging down his pants, lazily stroking himself. This wasn't anything surprising – you wouldn't believe how comfortable we were to let instincts reign in the security of our own house.

Leaping up from the sofa, I padded over to his side of the room, leaning over him to glance at the intricate system he was trying to crack. I didn't read a bit of it. Instead I put my lips to his ear; to his cheek. "Fuck me."

Mello groaned, batting me away. "No, I'm busy."

I ignored him, my hand reaching downwards to stroke the inside of his thigh. "C'mon Mello…." I snagged the lobe of his ear between his teeth; my cock twitched helplessly at the groan he feebly tried to supress.

For a moment, there was only silence, and then he spun around so quickly I was caught off guard. With a snarl he heaved me away, and leaping after me. He landed on my chest with a painful thud. Despite how skinny he was, he was still heavy enough to keep me pinned. I struggled beneath him, my hands at his chest, my eyes narrowed.

It always started like this- a power struggle. We'd both fight to best the other, to humiliate them as best we could. I loved it. Mello was breathing hard above me. I was still for a moment, before bucking beneath him and successfully unseating him. He went down, and I used this as an opportunity to scramble on top of him, straddling his waist with my knees, my hands keeping his wrists pinioned above his head.

With a grin (which was answered with a furious groan) I leant down and kissed him. Mello was still for a moment- his hands were stagnant beneath mine. He was _so warm _and tasted like chocolate, like I remembered, like I adored. Our tongues battled, lungs heaving, my mouth heavy on his.

The stillness did not last long.

Mello detonated beneath me. One of his hands awoke and, without a moment's hesitation, he punched me in the face. My jaw burnt and I wrenched away from him, swearing beneath my breath and rubbing my face. I was used to Mello hitting me (sometimes I'd make it a game to see how many snide comments I could make before he attacked) but this time I hadn't been prepared. However I didn't let Mello scramble away- flouting my aching face I leapt at him again, until he was pressed beneath me. Wrenching down his pants I retrieved his cock which he had at some point replaced in them. Mello uttered a furious gasp, bucking.

I didn't allow him to move. Using one hand to hold Mello steady I leaned down, mouth teasing at the head of his cock, which was erected and monumental. He reacted instantaneously, as he always did- his back hollowing, his eyes squeezing closed, his breath returning in shallow pants. One of his hands tangled in my hair, squeezing it.

It happens like it always does.

Dragging MY mouth up, down, up, hungry, desperate, pulling back before Mello comes. We wrestle to the ground, but I win, like I always do, like I know Mello likes it. I grapples his leather pants down and push him against a wall, breathing furiously, tongues fighting.

Mello's fingers as they curl at my spine as I enter him without preparation, without warning. His voice in my ear, low, throaty: "_Fuck, fuck, oh my god, Matt fuck me harder, harder!" _I do. Of course I do. Mello claws at my exposed flesh as I slam him in a furious beat against the wall, noiseless except for my uncompromising breathing, my fingers at his cock, jerking it upwards and downwards and upwards as he writhes beneath me, groaning, muttering in my ear, exploding into my hands.

We finish like we always do. I don't finish inside of him- I pull out to stem his chest, releasing like I only can with him, licking some of it off but not all of it because part of me desperately wishes it would stain.

I remember what Mello had said the first time it happened, the first night he returned to me.

"_This means nothing. Don't forget that._"


End file.
